In the mornings in the city

In the mornings, in the city, when the water complains
in the millions of taps in the houses,
sleep keeps rebounding between the walls
and keeps breaking up, keeps breaking up.

While the half-opened eyes see nothing
the blinds roll up and shout,
when it's still dark at the windows
it's the time the great emptiness fills our head.

The muffled sound of cars and buses
and a voice that comes out husky
come slowly to the ears:
sound helps the light to become day.

In the underground the steam and the stink dream,
and little by little all the bodies film over;
many faces of philosophers can be seen
within the crystal tiredness of men.

Each moment is lived with the renunciation
of other moments which will never come again.
You have always known it and now you also feel it:
yellow is the time of all nostalgia.

In the mornings, in the city, when the water complains,
is the time when the great emptiness fills our head.
The sound helps the light to become day,
within the crystal tiredness of men.

In the mornings, in the city, when the water complains...